


A Perfect Fit, You And Me

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Being Slutty, Cinderella Elements, Dildos, Fantasizing, Finding Prince Charming, First Kiss, First Time, Humorous Tone, M/M, Masturbation, Which is obviously Nick Clegg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 09:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20721887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: David starts having these fantasies and dreams where he's having sex with a mysterious male figure. Despite never having been with a man, he tries to satisfy himself at first with toys and then with other men. But when that doesn't satisfy his need, he realises that who he really needs is his mystery man from his fantasies. Finally, Nick finds out about David's recent activities and offers to screw him as to not create a possible scandal. David feels unsure about this arrangement, but eventually gives in and realises that Nick was the mystery man. Written for this prompt at the uk_lolitics anon kink!meme.





	A Perfect Fit, You And Me

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2010 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the aforementioned prompt at the uk_lolitics anon kink!meme.
> 
> *~*~*~*
> 
> Please note that this is a work of fiction involving real people written by myself - it is a completely made-up fantasy and is in no way intended to cause offence.

He twirled the chrome pod around and around, as if he was a majorette practicing a solo with a baton; only, a teenage, virgin girl of fifteen would have probably felt less nervous than him under the present circumstances. Having sent one of his most trusted aides down to Soho, trussed in a trenchcoat and a pair of shades, to retrieve the item - one might have thought he'd take the plunge before the damned batteries ran out. Did anyone even know what a challenge it was for a senior politician to obtain a sex toy these days? He'd considered enlisting the services of MI5 when the idea had first cropped up. But you know you're seriously paranoid to think that even a professional spy would blab to the press about you. The most shameful part about it was: the last person he wanted to know wasn't the papers - it was his wife.  
  
He gaped on in horror as he clicked it to its default setting. It was deafening. He'd certainly be heard, he thought, as it whirred. The lone solution at which he arrived was to muffle the vibrations as _soon_ as _possible_. Conceding to the desperate ache within, he licked the shaft of the metal stick to wetten it and proceeded - he teased himself at length with the blunt-edged object but, unfortunately, it would always feel like his_ own_ hand, and not as if it was someone else. He frowned with some disappointment.  
  
Blushing profusely, David lowered himself onto the wand with care and attention. This was still a relatively unknown procedure for him, but it was rapidly becoming tougher to get off without it. His eyes darted to the window, to ensure nobody could be peeking from across the street between the gap in his bedroom curtains, as the drapes moved and swayed from the light breeze blowing into the room.  
  
How had it boiled down to this, you may ask? Cameron had a young and beautiful spouse, who was willing to do her utmost for him in the sack. But somehow, in the light of recent unexpected events, he'd found himself yearning for nothing other than a hard and fast, brutal fucking. Which she, bereft of a penis, could not provide him with.

The events he spoke of were of the forbidden fantasies he'd been unwittingly forced to view night after night - where a mystery figure, partly obscured but almost definitely male - had infiltrated his slumber, breaking through the locks of rationality and protective walls of repression which would've been erected whilst awake, to steal his heart. _They'd _driven him to buy this wretched device, to recreate the scenario where _he_ was passionately drilling into him; seductively wrapping hands around his back and pulling him closer; claiming him wholly, body and soul. Regardless of never having had sex with a man before, he simply couldn't put aside these intense, new sensations. Also, aware of how daft it must seem, he couldn't confess to anyone this sudden impulse - of how, as somebody straight, he wanted to be shagged into submission by a total stranger. What the hell was it all about? It read like a daytime movie plot from some obscure American television station. Hallmark possibly, or Living TV.  
  
David hummed a song to cover the noises, the blissful buzzing taking place inside of him intensifying such as to entice his stiffening dick to full mast. It wasn't necessarily the stimulus of the act, but more the thought of being with this gorgeous mystery man which excited him so. The plastic silver bullet was an inferior substitute, had you known the heady heights of delight received during his hallucinations, but his imagination more than made up for it. He pined for the ridges of real flesh to pound him, or the swelling, twitching organ of another human being to take him. "Ah," he'd moaned, softly and nearly there. It felt nice, but, still, it wasn't him. He needed to find that man.  
  
He wondered what was happening to him here. Maybe it was an undeniable, irrefutable mid-life crisis brought on by his job. All he knew was: he was scanning his partner's copy of Cosmopolitan at the breakfast table for positions to try with his self-created hunk, hoping to be able to insert them into his dreams this eve, while on the cusp of lucidity - and his finger was already poised upon the speed-dial button, preparing to phone some of his gay friends for advice. They'd know; they'd understand; they'd probably already been there, done that and bought the t-shirt. Cautiously replacing the magazine under other coffee-table reading material, he hid the evidence as not to rouse suspicion from Sam. He hadn't been himself of late. If he started to enjoy his sex life again, then maybe he could please _her_ too.  
  
Little did he know - this wouldn't be the right way: _this_ was a fundamental step on the road to ruin. Now, it was July and, by August, he would be addicted to this obsession. The next chance he'd have to lie back and ponder the problem, he'd find himself shocked, alone and afraid. And, in an entirely different bed. But what about Cameron's benefactor to-be; the man he'd been looking for; the person who would eventually save him from himself? If David ever found him, he'd have to wait _some_ time, sadly, before making the discovery.

He jerked his last stroke with a confused mewl, the release finally snaking in splatters across his belly.  
  
  
-xXx-  
  
  
This wasn't working for him. Nothing was abating his urge for sex, or even his desire for _anything_ anymore; he was stale. Maybe the Prime Minister truly _was_ having a midlife crisis, as he'd predicted. After all, forty-three was half of eighty-six, and that would be quite a good innings, if he went on to live through it as planned, with Sam and the kids, in harmony and happiness - not spending every waking hour of it choosing to bottom for various tory backbenchers, like he _was_ doing. How many minutes of existence (if you can claim that floating around aimlessly in time and space until someone has the good grace to drag you back down to the earth _we_ all live on, _is_ existing) would that actually be? How many more rushed, distinctly unpleasurable and therefore unfathomable, orgasms would he need to have, in the thick of his sordid guilt? And why couldn't he simply buy a Harley Davidson, and ride out his troubles circling the M25 on his new motorbike, like most other middle-aged city-dwelling men?  
  
David flopped onto the pull-out bed he'd had installed in his office - because sleeping at work would surely bring no suspicion, especially after the ongoing amendments to the expenses bill. The mattress expelled copious amounts of puffed air as he landed on it with a hefty flump, the base already half-exhausted from overuse. Ikea's Tromso was a sturdy item, but, as game as the Swedes may have been, he doubted even _they _could have gauged the level of activity in his filthy romps. Oh yes - there had been many, he acknowledged, with bitter resentment. Drawing up a mental checklist, his weary brain began to meander through the many gay dalliances of these past weeks. He couldn't believe what he was saying. A month ago, he'd been straight.  
  
"_Too big, too small, too thick, too thin,"_ he sighed. _"Too kind, too cruel, too quick, too slow. All of this - and for what?" _A floating marker pen ticked each name off the list in his thought bubble, disregarding each and every from one to a dozen, squeaking an imaginary squeak as it came into contact with a whiteboard surface.  
  
As whimsical in nature as this 'quest for the cock' may have been portrayed, this was far from a rom-com; this wasn't 'Sex In The City', nor was it the 'Bridget Jones' Diary'. There wasn't a Mark Darcy in sight; solely ten or so overweight, elderly, ghastly politicians. And it most positively hadn't been 'Debbie Does Goldilocks and the Three Bears', with baby searching for the perfect fit. If so, David would've had to have wolfed down 'porridge' almost as many times as he had done humble pie on these few occasions. But, admittedly, he was _greedy_ anyway _-_ it was never enough. Cameron should have been content with his already perfect life, his perfect wife - who would _kill _him if she ever found out. Not that he would ever put _her_ at risk - he always made his fuck buddies wear protection. But if trawling through his little black book of political contacts wasn't enough, where would it end? He'd have to seek out greater thrills, perhaps on the internet, and mix with the kind of n'er do wellls who could eventually be his downfall.  
  
The best thing about being the most powerful man in the country - there were countless benefits, of which he could barely begin to tot up. However, the worst was being so easily recognisable. Unless you'd been living in a cave, you would instantly know the face of our Prime Minister, David Cameron. And if that also happens to be the face of the man you're balls-deep into, soon enough, everybody else is going to know too. People were already starting to gossip. And this was no less evident than in the concerns of his deputy, Nick Clegg, who entered his quarters with the most pressing matter on his lips.  
  
"I need to speak to you, David," he commented, one hand on the door frame. Upon seeing David slumped on the day-bed, seemingly asleep, he pretended to cough.  
  
The older man's eyelids flipped open, and his tired eyes rolled towards the speaking man. "Yes?"  
  
"I heard a... rumour this morning... about you," he uttered. "It's very private, and--" Nick shiftily glanced around him, over his shoulder - and, for some reason, at the ceiling - as if there may be journalists clung onto the plaster molding for fear of grim death, juggling cameras with their toes. Though, if they'd known the story breaking here, the tabloids would have sent _all_ of their best reporters to _this_ scene. Sealing off the room by closing the door, the Liberal walked towards him, his face full of grave concern. "I just think you should know what people are saying about you."  
  
David knew he'd been rumbled. In spite of this, he couldn't put a halt to his most sordid thoughts; undressing poor Nick with his eyes right now, wondering how he would look when stripped naked, and admiring - even at such an inopportune moment as this - the outline of he who he knew to be _quite_ the casanova's neatly concealed cock. _"Stop it, Dave," _he scolded himself, mentally._ "Stare any longer and he'll think you want to eat him."_  
  
"Are you listening...? Mate, this is _important, _okay. The word on the street is that you've... started to enjoy the company of loose men," he hissed. "I don't know who's trying to defame you, or what they expect to get in return, but don't forget that I've been through this all before with Simon Hughes and--"  
  
Cameron appeared hurt by the accusation, but for reasons he clearly wished not to explain. "I trust you can keep a secret, Clegg. If so, could you please keep this idle chit-chat to yourself?" He kept it polite, concise and to the point.

"You _haven't? _" Nick gawped, open-mouthed. Trained in body-language recognition as a matter of due course in politics, he detected this immediately as a subtle admission from David that this was true. Stunned as he was, he found himself then floundering, trying his very best to empathise. He didn't want to pry but, at the same time, he was so sorry for not being there for him sooner. They were supposed to be good friends. "Don't you think it could be... well, a tad _dicey _going with all these men? Or is that the appeal? If so, I understand."  
  
"No! No..." he almost shouted. "It's just that sometimes... Sometimes I need a bloody good seeing to, alright!" Under his breath, he quietly added, "Not that it's any of your business."  
  
"Except for the fact that it is," Nick stated, bluntly. "This coalition will become a joke and I do not want to see it tore apart by the media any more than it has been. And believe it or not - even as the leader of the opposing party - I don't want to see _you _under fire."  
  
"If you want me to cool it, I'm afraid that's out of the question - and you're wrong to ask me," David nodded in sorrow. "It's my tiny bit of fun in a very nasty world... Being Prime Minister is an exhausting occupation. But then again, _you wouldn't know..._" This was no time for insults but, somehow - this time - the darker-haired man couldn't help himself; Nick truly _did_ have no concept of the difficult situation he was in, and the less he knew about it right now, the better. However, to his great surprise, Clegg chose to ignore that obvious dig, rather - instead - choosing to cup Cameron's face with a quick, though somehow simultaneously, _slow, delicate_ grasp - tips holding onto his chin, the light stubble scraping his fingers.  
  
"I _never_ said that, Dave - _did_ I?"  
  
Cameron longed to know where this line of questioning was going. In fact, he downright demanded it. If Clegg was attempting to blackmail him, then he had another thing coming. "What is it that you're trying to say to me?" shrugging Nick's hand.  
  
"I--I... want to help you," Nick told him, initially stuttering, his heart fluttering madly. "I really should be the one to help you nip this in the bud. As with any addiction, you need to be weaned off of the... _substance. _Sex addiction is no different." This offer should have been like a life-line tossed into the sea to a sailor thrown overboard, but Clegg couldn't help himself from drowning in it - he simply _wished_ he could keep this a purely professional affair, wished he could put those _thoughts_ of Cameron out of his mind. His voice suddenly deepened - lustily and out-of-character, he rumbled, "Besides, _David... _you're not the only one with these kinds of desires... I'll help you even if the only thing you want is a _really good fucking_."  
  
Nick was powerless for a second of weakness. When all was said and done, he was a red-blooded male. And what man wasn't addicted to sex when it came down to it? Such images of David in secret trysts with all of those many willing men - in this very room - were unbearably affecting. He pressed the palms of his hands into the padded surface and was now crudely splayed over his colleague’s lap, "Come on... You don't need those wannabes when you can have a relationship with someone whose feelings for you are real!"  
  
The PM could feel him hard against his thigh - and, staving off every screaming hormone in his system - managed to hold him at arm's length. "I don't get involved with family men."  
  
"Well, fucking God in heaven - give me the Lord Christ's number, David. I want to call him and tell him to take his saint back!" the tone Clegg possessed became progressively aggressive. He was somebody who wasn't used to being refused, especially not in a romantic sense.  
  
"I don't want to ruin two lives," he chirped.  
  
"Oh stop being such a selfish, sanctimonious bastard... Can't you take a hint? You're special to me - _honestly,_ you are. This isn't about the sex and you _have_ to believe me... Since the election, our friendship has become the single most important thing in my life - and I want to see you as happy as you were at the bloody beginning of it. The thought of all these men pawing you, it makes me feel sick," Nick spat. "But not because of what they're doing... It's because they're doing it to _you._ And I _know_ you're not happy after letting them use you this way_, _David."  
  
"No," knowing more than anybody that he'd gone off the rails - spiralled out of control. Cameron bowed down to his own shaking hands, "I'm not."  
  
"Then neither am I," Clegg stood up in an uptight, military fashion; thoroughly masculine and braver than any soldier at war for allowing his emotions to run so freely, selflessly and without apprehension of the consequences he'd inflict upon himself. "So...? If you don't want to 'ruin two lives', Dave, then let me... let me," he tenderly reached out to David's hand and helped him upwards. "Let _me_ love you for once, instead of turning to these men."  
  
Nick wanted to _what? Love_ him? Cameron realised what had been missing from all of these meaningless encounters - he'd chosen those men because none of them had really known him, and that was the shame; _none of them really knew him_ and none of them truly cared. "Uhm," he whimpered, frightened, falling into his robust embrace. The man from his fantasies had been strong but also soft - a gentle giant, taking him from behind, yes - but cradling him in his arms too, lovingly, as they romped. Forever was 'he' speeding up to bring David closer; slowing down to bring him back from the edge; repeating tasks he liked; changing path under David's instruction, with his roaming hands, both rough though careful, groping his chest and massaging his shoulders to relieve the strain of being sat at his desk all day. Nick _was_ that man. This is why it hadn't felt the same with others. These were the actions of someone who _loved_ him.  
  
Beckoning him close with one digit, drawing a fingernail along the sore shaving rash which adorned David's neck, Nick tilted his scared expression - and, with every stroke - brought colour and warmth flooding into timid cheeks. They kissed with unbridled passion, albeit briefly, as it emerged to be Cameron's first full homosexual snog in spite of all he'd done. Initially, David had chickened out slightly, knowing that this would be an entirely new experience for the pair of them - before delving back to the fore, smirking at Clegg's sheer audacity, and pulling away from his mouth eventually in one gooey, saliva-filled move.

This here was 'Officer and a Gentlemen', this was 'Bridget Jones' Diary', and the proof of the pudding lied in this very walking, talking incarnation of Colin Firth.  
  
"I'll satisfy your urges," the younger man almost sobbed, the combination of snot and stifled tears coating his throat like glue - though Nick still managed to somehow sound wonderful to David-- "I could never live with myself if you continued to be a prostitute for everyone and anyone who promised to keep their mouths shut. I won't deny that I find you attractive, David William Donald Cameron... But you'll see there's so much more to me than that, hopefully, in the long run..."  
  
_"There's no danger of that not happening,"_ Dave noted, in his mind - a coy smile couldn't help but tug on his lips, as his thoughts turned to throwing the dildo in the bin. _"Because I already have, my dear Nick...I already have."_


End file.
